Dawn of the Wolf
by Melda Burke
Summary: Losse has lived in poverty her entire life because of the greedy Rohirrim. Now, with war and disease ravaging her people, she sets out on a journey to Gondor and Rohan. Can she learn to forgive the wrongs of the past?
A/N; I hope you all enjoy. :) I own nothing beyond the plot and my OCs.

When the plague first hit the outskirts of their villages the people had no name for it. They only called it Death. Now, as it ravaged thousands and covered their homeland they called it The Blue Fever. Symptoms were mild at first, a week or two of sniffles and heaviness in the chest while the disease gestated within the body. Then, a hacking cough would develop and an incredible thirst that made the blue veins visible under the pale skin. The coughing produced blue-green mucus as well as droplets of blood. The disease would plague you for as long as your body could stand, and if you were strong you would last a few months. As one would imagine the elderly and small children succumbed quickly and the death toll rose every day.

Losse dodged a cart full of bodies as she made her way swiftly through her home village. Rumors, suspicion, superstition had culminated into violence and fear. They said that they were cursed, cursed by the people who had driven them out of their rightful homeland. It wasn't enough to steal their fertile land, no, they must use their witchery wipe out the ordinary folk, the poor people reduced to scratching a bare living off of the rocks.

She had seen these people, the usurpers, from her mountain village and how she had hated them! Though those blond ennobled people of the Rohirrim had never raised a hand against her personally, her poverty was caused by their greed. They were the reason her brother was more like a skeleton than a boy, they were the cause and they were the enemy.

When a man came among them, elderly and dressed in white, she thought him a god from the old stories. With his words, he was able to rouse the spirits of her people which had long been broken. When he bade them to take up arms she cheered with the men. He promised an end to the fever, to the pestilence, to the misery, and the pain of an empty belly after a day of labor. She believed him like everyone else and allowed him to lead them into a land full of darkness and smoke where the soot of the mountain of Doom discolored his robes and stained his words.

Yet, her people still believed even now as they were being slaughtered in these battles because what other hope had they? It was better to die fighting than to starve or suffer to the end. She had only stayed behind because her brother now lay dying and there was no one else left. She could only make him comfortable by assuaging his constant thirst and bathing him with rags.

He left her nigh on sundown of Orome's Day, the last of her family. She hacked and hacked at the hard, unyielding earth all night until the skin of her palms were cracked and her blood dripped down the rough shovel onto his body in snake-like patterns of red. When he was finally covered, she brought oldest woman still alive in her village to pray over the body so that he may have better fortune in the afterlife, as was their custom.

The woman was blind and walked with a limp, but carried no crutch. She batted away helpful hands or offers of a cane. If she were to die it would be on her own two feet supported by nothing as she had been in life. Of all the elders, she was the last and greatest. Her face paint was yellowed white of old bones with black kohl circles around the eyes, the paint of a shamaness. She chanted over Kulkan's body and raised her hands to the sky offering up his soul to be returned into the energy pool of the world. His soul would scatter to the winds to nourish the plants and animals and to care for the earth. All that remained in the earth was a blighted body. She implored his spirit to take his leave and sever his attachment to his corpse and to his loved ones.

Losse lowered her eyes. She would not cry as this was not a sad event. His suffering was over and now he would venture on as spirits do to where the living cannot follow and do the important works that were needed. Her fists clenched by her side as those words echoed in her head… _cannot follow…._

When the rites were over and the onlookers had paid respect to Kulkan's spirit Losse lingered with the shamaness. The elder sprinkled a mixture of herbs over her head as a finishing gesture, but then spoke. "You do not belong here. You have a strong spirit with a great will that is wasted here in this forsaken land. Avenge the wrongs done to your people and your family. Cast down the Sorcerer and plead our case before the Edain and promise your aid in the war. Our sons, fathers, and brothers have left us for the losing side in this conflict. To ensure the future of this village, it falls to the last of us remaining unbroken to set us on a path of peace and prosperity. " The old lady sighed heavily, her old bones creaking as she shifted to pull a package with difficulty out of her ragged clothes. The bundle was long and slender, and bound with rags and twine. "Take this, whatever food you have left, and go with the next dawn. You will bring the hope of a new day like the rising of the sun after the dark and unknown night." She untied the oiled rags and revealed a sword that was plain, but well made with a simple leather grip. Losse, her muscles as hard as any man's from years of working stony soil, found the sword light and the song of the blade in the air sweet. She did not know the art of swordsmanship, but her chances were greater with a sword than without.

She turned from the shamaness. "I must honor my forbearers as I am the last of my bloodline. The blood of rebellion and vengeance runs in my veins as hot as it did in my great-grandfather's three centuries ago." She spoke, of course, of that great hero Wulf and founder of her proud family who led the first charge against the usurpers.

"You would do well to bear a name that would bear witness to your destiny. " She directed Losse to kneel next to her brother's grave and to lay her hands upon it. "Swear to do all that it may take to better our people so that our children may know peace and plenty."

"I take that oath." She bowed her head to the earth. "I swear upon my own flesh and blood."

"You are our weapon and our hope. You are the Dawn of the Wolf; the Draugrhun."

"You use the language of our enemies at my rebirth?" Losse questioned darkly.

"It is so that our enemies may know that we remain proud and unyielding, and that all that we have endured has broken our backs, yet not our defiant spirit." She replied. "Now, return home and prepare. Your journey will lead you first to the wizard's tower Orthanc to the northeast and it will not be smooth nor short." She reached out to touch the young woman's braid. "This is a handle for enemies to catch hold. Cut it off lest your head be wrenched back and your throat cut like a spring pig."

And so, the Draugrhun returned to her hut as ordered. She had little to pack besides two lengths of twine, the remnants of some unleavened bread, some dry fruit, a water flask, and a small knife. She left behind her skirt and dress, her loom and took out of the cookware only a blackened iron skillet and a spoon. She went to her brother's bed and took his leggings, tunic and cracked leather belt. She slid his boots onto her stocking-clad feet and rolled her loose belongings up into her blanket. She tied the twine at each end into straps.

She undid the thin leather band that had held her braid. This last thing seemed the most difficult as shearing her hair reminded her that she was no longer who she had been for the past seventeen years. She was not a woman anymore, but she was not a man. With this act, she became a genderless canvas onto which her people could paint their hopes and dreams. Her dark tresses fell to the dirt floor and she did not stop until it barely touched her ears.

A noise outside roused her attention and she opened the door to find a small group of women and a couple of small children. One of them, a lady named Nienar, stepped forward and presented a basket of food. "We would give more if we had it." She said sadly.

"Thank you, but I cannot accept this. You will starve." Losse knew this as this must have been a great sacrifice.

"I will starve regardless, if not that then the plague will take me. My husband and children are gone and I have no more ties to this miserable life. Take it and live on." Nienar bowed and took her leave of the group with all eyes on her.

The next woman stepped forward with a tiny boy who clung to her skirt. She held a rough and thick rope lead in her hands which was secured around the head of a donkey. "His name is Sig and he will serve you as best he can."

"Thank you, I will do all I can to bring him back." She noted the sad smile that the woman wore as she stepped back.

The next woman stepped up to her with a small box. "This was my husband's best knife and whetstone. I cannot bear to use them out of grief, so I pass them on to you."

Finally, elderly shamaness was left and she held a long, thick walking stick with singed markings in the old runes of the Futhark. "This is yours for when the hills seem too steep to climb and when you feel that you can walk no further. " She lent the stick against the side of the hut. "Sleep well tonight for I fear that future dreams will hold no comfort for you."

Losse was alone once more, but she remained outside to watch the sun set. Sig nipped at the thin grass while she hitched him to the side of the hut. His dusty coat was touched by the last of the golden rays and for a moment he was beautiful.


End file.
